


The Makings of Spellcasting

by AlchemistNine



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Magic, One Shot, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Romance, Spoilers for Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), The Great Fodlan Bakeoff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24641578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlchemistNine/pseuds/AlchemistNine
Summary: Constance von Nuvelle, Fódlan's self-proclaimed greatest spell creator, puts her talent to good use in order to save her underground crime lord lover. Dedicated to all the fans who wanted more after reading that Yuri/Constance A support. Rated M for a brief sexual description.
Relationships: Yuris Leclair | Yuri Leclerc & Constance von Nuvelle, Yuris Leclair | Yuri Leclerc/Constance von Nuvelle
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	The Makings of Spellcasting

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for The Great Fódlan Bakeoff, a writing exercise in which writers were given 48 hours and 4 themes (plus 1 bonus theme) to complete a story. The themes were: exploration, secret, ambition, devotion and gossip.
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this one shot. Thank you for reading!

“For the last time, Constance, I am not giving you the Feathers of Dromi.”

“Why do you insist on making my task that much harder?” Constance had huffed, her feet tapping on the stone floor of her temporary quarters. “It will do no good to you to constantly oppose me. Furthermore, I merely require the lending of your Hero’s Relic. I could not possibly demand a definitive offering.”

Yuri had sighed, his lavender hair obscuring half his face like a falling curtain.

“I know it’s important to you. I know you would not destroy it, much as I fear it -”

“What -”

“However,” Yuri stepped a little closer to Constance, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not just denying you out of the wickedness of my cold, cold heart. I’ve given it to the Professor for safekeeping, whenever I’m not using them. You should ask her.”

“But,” Constance had shaken her head vigorously, eyes wide. “You are always in need! Such a powerful artifact will surely come in hand for you at all times, you who are always making deals in the dark!”

“I am touched by how much you care about me, truly,” Yuri had somberly claimed. He caressed her cheek in a languid motion, and for Constance it seemed he was blossoming wildfires under his finger, such was the heat of his touch. “Rest assured, Shady Lady, this nimble bird is able to skirt around his many threats.”

“Ugh! I was under the impression I had already asked you to not address me as “Shady Lady”? If I am… that, well, you are the Shady Lord! _The shadiest of all_!”

“That’s exactly who I want to be,” he’d replied, touching her lips with his for the briefest of moments before he’d turned around and waltzed away, that infuriating handsome scoundrel with his white cape whirling behind. Constance huffed; she had always needed a few seconds to compose herself after their encounters, needed a moment to settle her breaths back to the depths of her belly, needed to quiet her frantic, erratic, nearly-combusting heart. 

“I shall have a word with the Professor as soon as we return to Garreg Mach!” She had loudly proclaimed.

It was the last thing she’d said to him before he’d been shot with a cursed arrow as they were leaving Fhirdiad.

They never found exactly who’d done it; that bandit gang had been particularly well equipped and Constance suspected the Empire could be behind it, supplying those lowly lives with weapons and devices far more sophisticated than they’d ever hoped to lay their hands on. Still, she wouldn’t take any from their bodies, not even when she spied the glint of a concoction jar hanging by the belts of a few of them.

“I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me,” she had gulped to the Professor when she and the rest of the Blue Lions rushed to stabilize an unconscious Yuri; Sylvain had been hurt, too, alternating between groans and faint murmurs as Ingrid worked to remove the end of a dagger from his left leg. “I was meek and unprepared, and did not heed the intuition that my comrades were in need of me. If somehow my meager talents manage to make up for my many blunders, I shall gladly offer them for you to command them as you see fit.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Constance,” ascertained Byleth curtly. Then, after a couple of seconds in which the Professor appeared to be pondering something, she grabbed the dark flier by the elbow and led her into the shade of a nearby oak. “Mercedes says the curse has stopped short of reaching his heart. He’ll need regular doses of strong potions and several healing spurs to slowly dissipate the curse out of him; it can’t be done quickly. I’m putting Mercedes near Yuri for the first round of treatments and then I’d like for you to take her place. I’ll keep Annette and Hapi on standby, in the chance we encounter more foes.”

Constance’s heart twisted into a sharp pang, but the dark flier ignored it with a brisk flick of her blonde ringlets.

“Oh, but of course! My dear friend Mercedes is nothing short of a prodigious healer and my own arts are second to none! For I am Constance von Nuvelle, researcher extraordinaire, including of the mysteries and nuances of Faith magic! I shall commit to this endeavor heart and soul, you may trust my word!”

Begrudgingly, she left the shadows of that blessed oak and back into mounting her Pegasus. While waiting for Mercedes’ signal to come down, she lamented her lackluster abilities and knew her healing would be poor and ineffective; but, most of all, she feared she would never hear Yuri’s voice again.

\--

They were back at Garreg Mach. Yuri and Sylvain were both hastily brought to the infirmary, with Professor Manuela already preparing potions and settling the injured men into their beds. Yuri was still out cold, but Sylvain looked as if he was ready to be out and about, already flirting with Manuela with promises that he’d never let her down. He’d only stop whenever Ingrid came, yelling him into bed rest.

Huh. Constance could see some similarities between Yuri and Sylvain; both flirting boys, smooth talkers with all their mellifluous words and winks and giggles; both with smiles that rarely reached their eyes. They’d perfected flirting to a degree of weaponization, although Constance saw that, while it worked as a sword to Yuri, a means of offense, for Sylvain it served as a shield of sorts. 

She knew Yuri surviving had been a good sign; it meant that there were defenses and that the magic and the potions were sufficing somehow. Still, last night Mercedes had walked to the Abyss for a head-to-head with her. They sat at the edge of her bed, like they used to so many nights at the School of Sorcery:

“I expected more by now,” Mercedes confessed, grabbing both Constance’s hands and placing them on her lap. “Yuri is a strong and healthy man. There is nothing physical stopping him from recovering. Surely you’ve noticed that too, by now.”

“I did,” she replied carefully. She recalled Yuri’s physique close to her, his arms carrying her like she weighed no more than a doll, and at that she felt her cheeks flushing slightly, to which she severely reprimanded herself. Now was not the time for that.

“Okay,” affirmed Mercedes very slowly, perhaps trying to make sure her friend understood. “I am wondering if it has to do with his will to live. We can’t bring back someone who doesn’t want to, after all.”

Constance began to emphatically deny her friend’s theory, stressing Yuri’s determination to help the children and the poor, the unfortunate and the fallen, be it by birth or life event. She remembered the fire in his eyes when he spoke about funding another orphanage or when she caught him singing a ballad to a couple of orphans on a secluded corner and he believed his audience to be solely of two. 

It crept on her that he had his fair share of shadows, too; perhaps many more than her, who’d first been born to a lap of luxury and untainted pride. She’d heard bits here and there, like pieces of a fabric she’d refused to stitch together. “ _I am nothing but scum_ ”; “ _You’d do well to stay away from me_ ”; “ _On the surface, no one will ever admit association to this untrustworthy bird_.” They were preposterous and undoubtedly untrue; however, everytime Constance had to traverse throughout the monastery en route to its various facilities, sunshine blazing at her spirit and thoughts, she’d understand those words just a little.

“There can be no room for indecisiveness!” Stated Constance, standing up. “I shall make him come to his senses, even if I have to invent a spell!”

A spell, but of course! That’s what was missing, that’s what would hasten Yuri’s recovery. Creating useful spells was the answer to everything, after all, as it surely would be the way to restore her House, too.

“Leave everything to me, Mercedes!” Assured the dark flier, launching into a delighted laugh. “My magic shall bring him back with renewed vigor, just in a timely fashion for us to make our way towards Embarr!”

She sent away Mercedes with a few more bouts of laughter and all the strength in her voice she could muster. Once her gentle friend left, Constance headed to the Pagan Altar. 

There was another Abyssian resident there; a veiled warlock, her garment obscuring her face and covering her entire body in heavy rolls of of dark-gray linen that swept the floor. They knew each other; the woman acknowledged her with a single nod, which Constance gracefully retributed back. 

She knelt by the grotesque statue, a giant of fractured carved stone surrounded by piles of rubble. No doubt it had been a polished work of art many ages ago; perhaps the center of worship of a powerful divinity, adored by many. There was something about this statue that made Constance strongly suspect that it was not a depiction of the Goddess. True, she did not care much for the Church of Seiros - both them and the Goddess had made no effort to stop the purging of her House - but she did see an undeniable utility to Faith magic, which was intrinsically connected to Her. It made her wonder if perhaps that was the motive she was far more at ease with Reason magic; the waves of power felt more natural to her, possessed the flavors of freedom and abandonment, were that much easier to cast by her. On the contrary, Yuri was highly adept of Faith magic; she’d heard the trickster talk somberly about the Goddess before; was quick on his feet to support a fellow ally in battle with a well applied healing spell. He was calculating and precise; she hurled explosive spells and giant ice shards that dug massive craters on the battlegrounds.

She needed him.

Murmuring a quick prayer to the statue in front of her (and to Goddess, why not, to all the Gods and Goddesses of the world who will observe my rise to power once again!), she noticed the warlock turned for leaving the altar.

“Wait, if you please!” She called. “I require a most important favor and am in need of your talents. If this mission is accomplished, I shall be that much closer in achieving the necessary glory to re-establish the foundations of House Nuvelle!”

The woman smirked, used to Constance’s tirades.

“I’m listening.”

\--

Constance von Nuvelle refused to hide herself under a cloak like some petty criminal when her only crime was to dislike the sun. She had lobbied for her friends and allies to take turns shielding her, if needed (she did not come out much), but her efforts had been largely unsuccessful. Hence her stride at a higher speed than what befitted her noble status as she exited the Greenhouse; she couldn’t afford to falter now, for she carried the last of the ingredients needed to produce such a spell that the likes of the entire Fódlan had never seen! 

And then the sun came from behind the gray clouds that were previously concealing it…

So shameful. Her skills were lacking. If by a stroke of luck she managed to grasp the concepts required to the creation of that spell, then all credit had to go to the Goddess, who in Her all-encompassing wisdom and kindness had taken pity of such a frail, weak creature. 

Professor Hanneman von Essar, a most esteemed skilled scholar, passed by her. 

“Good morning, Miss Constance. Up so soon already, and carrying... a Noa Fruit?” He observed, dignifying her presence with a small bow, nevertheless the fact that she was no longer a noble.

“A fine morning to you, Professor Hanneman. It saddens me that your noble self was required to stop in order to speak to a spiritless soul such as myself. As for the fruit, a generous amount of good fate brought me to being born to the House of this Fruit’s namesake; I am hoping, by collecting this precious edible gift from the Greenhouse, that the threads that bind me to this House strengthen my own shreds of magic even for a bit. But I know that to most likely not be happening.”

She recalled, as the Professor expertly dismissed her poorly-phrased explanations, that he’d honored her many years ago by asking if she’d be so kind as to step on his Crest device. That was the first time he had spoken her way. Pleased as she was with him deigning the attention when he didn’t have to and shouldn’t bother, her mind obviously faltered when she knew she would not be able to protect her Crest’s identity the way her parents had taught her. Only by some incredible stroke of luck had she been able to conjure the familiar spell under her fingertips, projecting instead the Crest of Macuil.

“But you are of Adrestian nobility as well, yes? Surely you knew this already, that House Nuvelle bears this Crest,” she had said in such a haughty, disrespectful tone it made her want to flog herself with the nearest branch.

“I have read it so, Miss Constance,” he’d shockingly agree. “I was under the impression… never mind.”

How she had gotten to disguise her Crest for so many years, she’d never know. She assumed it went by the eyes of everyone because they were not paying attention to her, as they should, for to spend any more than a few seconds listening or talking to her was a grievous waste of time indeed.

“It has come to my dull mind that I have never apologized for deluding a wide array of distinguished individuals, including the brilliant Professor and the most esteemed House of the Blue Lions, who taught me as one of their own and did not have to, regarding the matters of my Crest. Please permit me to bring myself to my knees in an attempt to soothe your more than deserved anger at me.”

“Miss Constance, you will not do such a thing!” Professor Hanneman offered his hand to a kneeling Constance, who after a few moments accepted it, as she did not want to further embarrass him with her pitiful manners. “I thank you for sharing with me and the rest of the students and teachers the true nature of your Crest. Of all your Crests”, he added, and his eyes glinted. “I hope one day you will give me the honor of studying it further and to also learn from your magical technique. There may be a possibility that your Crest gives you that talent you have for creating all sorts of spells. Your ancestors were right to protect it, as its loss would be a shame. I am happy to find you safe, Miss Constance; should you need my assistance for your most recent spell invention, summon me and I will do my best to assist you.”

“Oh, how unsuitable would that be. It would not do for a personality of your high caliber to mingle with the likes of me. I am beyond any comprehensive ability to understand such a proposal, and so I must retire myself to the only place that I deserve; the depths of Abyss. I thank you for your boundless generosity and may I, in the future, contribute with whatever little I can to repay it such an enormous display of character. I bid you the most respectful farewell a human being of my station is capable of conceiving.”

She would never understand why Professor Hanneman thought ever so highly of her, thought Constance as she went straight for Abyss. She couldn’t remember exactly why she was in a hurry, but it had to be because she’d done something wrong and wanted to make amends as soon as possible; yes, that had to be it.

\--

“Oh, how I’ve wanted to hold these for so long!” Screeched an excited Constance von Nuvelle to no one in particular, dangling the Feathers of Dromi in her hands. 

The Professor had them personally delivered, which Constance thought was quite proper of her, as such a Relic ought not to be transported via dubious messengers. She marveled at the intricate details on the golden piece that went above the wrist, the ochre colored, perfectly round Crest Stone of Aubin lodged at what would be the center of the back of the hand when equipped, the delicate metal tresses that extended onto the distal phalanges, covering them in ancient spells of protection, energy and speed - and she pressed the Hero’s Relic to her chest, eyes fluttering shut. 

It reminded her of him, so much that it pained her. She couldn’t see it without him wearing it nonchalantly on his right hand, as if it was an everyday accessory and not a priceless artifact. He’d once joked about the gold he could make by selling it and she’d nearly punched him for that (“ _Careful, I’ve seen firsthand the power of your fists_ ,” he had claimed, dodging her swiftly). How typical of him, how infuriating that he’d make such a ludicrous statement and to her of all people, no less. He knew she was sensitive about not having a Hero’s Relic of her own; if House Nuvelle had ever possessed such a treasure, she’d never been told about it (the outrage!) and it had likely been destroyed during the war. Well then, it was up to her to create a new House Nuvelle Relic as well!

“A noble task for later!” She decided, rising her first in the air. “For now, I must complete this spell and cast it on that bird! I can feel the magic coming together already! Oh Constance, you are such a genius. The Professor, the Blue Lions and the Ashen Wolves are so lucky to have you!”

She placed the ingredients neatly in front of her: Noa fruit, Feathers of Dromi, Albinean Berry blend, a Goddess statuette. The last one was courtesy of the warlock; she’d found it on her bedside table not longer after their previous convo. Hapi had raised an eyebrow at the statuette when she climbed up the bunk bed, but offered no further commentary. Next to it, a small folded read in a neat cursive: “ _With regards, from the Goddess_ ”. 

That warlock was such a helpful lackey! Constance would surely invite her into her House once His Highness graced her with titles and a domain; she had already requested the port town on the far west of the Adrestian Empire and he’d promised, on his honor, that he would support her cause, which had been a marvelous development. Constance had high hopes for Prince Dimitri; after all, his story was similar to hers: they too had attempted to obliterate his House. He was a survivor who had dived into the depths of his own insanity only to return as a King that Fódlan was sorely in need. It was the Empire that needed to disappear, after years and years of destruction and bloodshed; her past had to be dealt with in order for her future to flourish.

“Let us begin,” she announced, grabbing a quill and parchment and sitting in front of her objects with a self-assured grin. Her pupils narrowed and her breathing slowed down in the controlled way she had used so many times before; to create a new spell was to swim in an ocean of both tapped and untapped magic, delving into the many currents of ancient power, discovering and rediscovering new ways to apply what was already there, but presented in a different way and tone. Slowly, she dipped her quill into the ink and scratched a few lines on the parchments, getting the feel of the materials; then, she drew a perfect circle at the center of the parchment and, hand still focused on her drawing, deliberate, she eyed every single one of the ingredients.

The Noa fruit; the fruit of her ancestor, her Crest, her latent power that coursed through her veins, had helped her survive, would help her thrive; for it, she pressed strongly on the quill, bold, powerful strokes. The Feathers of Dromi; his Relic, his Crest, a gust of wind and a taste of flight; freedom, roaming through many places, a sense of never belonging, never having a home to call his own; she drew spirals and arches, letting her hand soar and glide and land with the faintest of pressures. The Goddess statuette; his beliefs, his hopes for a better world, his magic with which he healed and silenced and struck through divine force; at first, she was unsure how to proceed, but the movements came quickly to her as she thought about the Monastery, home to Her worship and to Her many followers, about the Four Saints that spread Her word and the Four Apostles that had attempted to resurrect her by shedding their blood, much in the same way she and the other Ashen Wolves had been taken advantage of and only survived because of Yuri’s foresight, he who revered the Goddess. 

At last, the Albinean Berry Blend. Constance had felt shy choosing this particular ingredient for the basis of her spell; the memories were too fresh, too intense, but precisely because of that, it was essential that it took part in the ritual of creation. After a period of fighting her inner self, her walls came down in favor of professionalism and she added in the final element of her spell; the red fruited tea Constance had discovered both her and Yuri enjoyed, as the latter had repeatedly told her he didn’t care much for tea and she’d repeatedly told him that was unbecoming of a noble; the tea they’d both sipped in his quarters, a private party of two as Balthus and Hapi joined with the Blue Lions on the Training Grounds for an extra lesson and left them alone and Yuri locked the door; the tea Constance later tasted on his lips and he tasted on hers as and she pushed him against the wall and he grabbed her wrists and lifted her by the waist and onto the bed, and they were both moaning at each other’s ears and throats and kissing and ultimately shouting in pure bliss and ecstasy; the tea they’d had a few more sips as they laid contentedly in each other’s arms, basking in a calmness of sweat and sore muscles. Her heart raced as she felt the familiar whirlwind of butterflies in her belly; she brought those butterflies to her spell too, weaving them with her quill into the parchment, embedding their wings and twirls. Finally, she closed her eyes and, with a sharp exhale, placed both hands atop the symbol; it responded back, sending her long currents of energy that flowed through her body, making her arms twitch and spread her palms. It was the last step and the spell was completed.

“Oh Constance,” she sighed, head half mushed by the intensity of the ritual. “Your intellect knows no bounds! How I manage to surprise myself I cannot even fathom. To the infirmary, I bid myself!”

\--

As expected, there were two occupants in the infirmary. Manuela had gone for a needed rest, hopefully not for the consolation of the bottle; it was little past noon. Constance kept the door opened behind her and glanced at a certain redhead sprawled on his bed.

“You might as well have the gesture of opening your eyes, Sylvain, for I know you not to be sleeping.”

Sylvain sat up almost immediately on his bed, taking his time to fully stretch his arms.

“And a fine morning to you too, my lady! Perceptive, are we?” He scratched his head, now stretching his back and sides.

“Indeed!” She gave a small chuckle, covering her mouth with a dainty hand; Sylvain needed not to know she was merely bluffing and, had he said nothing, she would assume him to be fast asleep. “I bear a small request to you and I shall be very pleased to see you following suit. It is pertaining to -”

“Say no more,” he interrupted, placing both arms in front of his head in a surrendering pose. “You want me to vamoose so you can stay alone with Yuri here.”

“I - I beg your pardon? _Vamoose_?” Asked Constance, mouth ajar.

“Yeah, vamoose, hightail, scram. You want me gone.”

“Well, I intended to obtain your cooperation by means of far more exquisite jargon, but when you put that plainly, yes, I do.”

Was Sylvain genuinely smiling? Sometimes it was hard to tell; he was such a very good performer.

“Ha. I can go, sure, but what will you give me in return for my silence? Pretty sure noble ladies aren’t supposed to be with a man without a chaperone.”

He was mocking her, and she was oh so very tired of being mocked, but she missed being challenged as well, so she easily allowed her words to rise to a crisping whiplash.

“First of all, it does not bother me in the slightest that you speak of me, for as long as I have resided in Abyss and years before, I have been the subject in countless malicious and baseless rumours. They shall all be dealt with when House Nuvelle rightfully becomes what used to stand for in the past. But if you insist on crossing me, asking for rewards, I shall humor you dearly with a reward of my own: leave us for the time of a meal and I swear by all my House’s prideful ancestry that I shall not communicate to Ingrid the wicked ways in which you’ve attempted to gain something from me, a most unbefitting behavior for a noble, a knight and a man.”

“Wow wow, alright alright, I’ll go!” He darted an eye towards the Feathers of Dromi, which Constance was carrying at her waist, tightly secured by a fashionable belt. When he passed by her, he spoke in such a low tone she could hardly ascertain his exact words:

“He says your name sometimes. Do your best.”

He closed the door behind her, leaving the dark flier alone with her intended target.

There was not but a moment to lose. Constance gave haste, steadying trembling hands, reaching for a wooden bench, placing the Feathers of Dromi on top of Yuri’s hand and hers, naked of any rings or bracelets, on top of the Relic. She knew that, for this, it would be best to operate without the aid of artifacts or a staff.”

She closed her eyes and began pooling her amount of magical reserves around a single, focused intent. She envisioned the drawing in her mind.

“ _Praesidium. Viribus. Salutem_ ,” she chanted, again and again, a litany of barely a murmur, but enough to feel the familiar currents condensing around her fingers, solidifying from flimsy wisps to heavy, jolting pillars of pure energy. The Feathers of Dromi laid unchanged, resting at their master’s rightful place. 

She reached to his dormant mind with a sliver of her spell, the first part; she found a turmoil of thoughts and images which, like a proper guest, she made her best not to look around and dissect too much as to not force her presence nor assume the role of a shameless invader. There were maybe four or five scenes in which she stayed longer than the appropriate ; Yuri as a child, fading in and out of consciousness, an old man with a beard and a gentle smile kneeling upon him; Yuri as a teenager, arriving at what she assumed to be Rowe territory, as he nodded to the Gray Lion, Gwendal; Yuri as an adult, seeing her, Constance von Nuvelle, shouting, squirming, blasting spells left and right, blushing fiercely when he’d said they’d stay as lovers for the time being; at that sight, she felt her cheeks heat up again. And the voices, so many of them, screams and whimpers, gasps and oaths; so many words of regret and self-contempt.

“Yuri…” She faltered at the harsh echoes of sound: “ _human garbage_ ”, “ _good for nothing_ ”, “ _a waste of a life_ ”. Inside his mind, she covered her ears; no more of that nonsense, she bid. She had to keep her spell grounded, lest it failed before she cast it to completion. Bending her forehead until it touched her hands, she felt the shadows pouring from her fingers and enveloping them both in a shroud of comfort. Her Crest of Noa activated, lending her a fresh breath of energy, as if she hadn’t already consumed part of her magical reserves.

“Come back, Yuri. We need you. I need you,” she whispered, gradually exposing him to the entire of her spell; a string of memories flowed from her into his mind, adding several images and intertwining an amount of voices which hadn’t been populating Yuri’s mind; the sounds of children laughing and Yuri laughing with them, screeches of joy, the clang of metal versus metal as Yuri defended her against a bandit who’d come too close. That was the first time he’d equipped the Feathers of Dromi.

Like a flower unfurling to the delicate glow of moonlight, so did Yuri’s Relic acquired a shine that rivaled the most expensive of jewelry; bathing his skin in gold. His Crest activated, pulsing through his body with a single heartbeat, and right there Constance felt his hands tremble. With a resolute wave of her left hand, she dispelled the cocoon of darkness; it had fulfilled its purpose, for using it in excess could shatter his mind. 

Yuri slowly opened his eyes, his eyelids heavy with the vestiges of a long slumber. As he adapted to the state of wakefulness, he wasted no time getting a reckon of the place, his shoulders lowering upon the realization he was laying on an infirmary bed.

“Hello,” he said, followed by a spectacular grin. His hair and messy and his lips a thin line, devoid of their usual lipstick. He looked wonderful.

“Hello to yourself as well. Your ailment provided quite a scare for the entirety of Garreg Mach! Must you be so inconsiderate?” Constance nearly bit her tongue, for her trickster had just woken to the sounds and sights of the monastery and already she was chastising him.

“I’m sorry,” he simply answered, to which she was struck speechless. “Me and Sylvain were ambushed. I think they got to him too. Is he -”

“He is faring quite well,” she informed him. “As for this beautiful day, I have in good word that he selected to take his lunch at the Dining Hall and shall make for a return at the infirmary in a timely fashion to resume his healing process.”

“Oh, you sent him away so you could be alone with me at the infirmary? That’s my clever girl.”

Constance gasped and looked away, embarrassed. Perhaps Sylvain had a point and this had been outrageously scandalous for her; after all, what one did in the privacy of their quarters was one thing, and what she had just done was another thing altogether. 

She smiled to herself. “Let them talk,” she thought imperiously to herself. “For those who dare shall become so beneath me their voices will hardly reach my ears.”

She felt a warm touch to her wrist; Yuri had gently grabbed her, stroking her skin with one long finger.

“I know you did something to me just there. One of your spells?”

“Hmm, yes. I mean -” She got momentarily distracted by Yuri’s fingers caressing her hand. “Why, it was certainly me who restored your consciousness after that dreadful curse that threatened your very being! For I am... “ She wavered, dropping her head. “You almost died,” she whispered, closing her eyes. Savoring his touch.

“Don’t forget I’ve been brought back from the brink of death before. Won’t be the first time, won’t be the last.” He reached for her cheek, raising it with one finger. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you by my side.”

They looked each other in the eyes and, for a few seconds, they dared exposing everything they couldn’t put into words; their gaze spoke of vulnerability, tiredness and fear, but also of trust, love and hope. It was such an infrequent moment for Constance that, like an untrained muscle, she couldn’t keep it for too long. She smirked, putting a hand to her chest, and Yuri smiled back, sitting straighter on his bed.

“Of course! It is all thanks to my indubitably excellent magical prowess! Furthermore, I could not have maintained my mission of restoring House Nuvelle as firmly had I fallen short of one valuable ally!”

“Ha. Right as always,” said Yuri, leaning in to a very close proximity. He had put his Feathers of Dromi away, after a quick quizzical look.

Constance felt she had to reaffirm her purpose, lest it swept away under his touch and the way he was looking at her.

“The re-establishment of my House is my primary mission! For I am the sole bearer of the Crest of Noa, and to preserve it I must preserve all that it embraces!”

“I see. I think I felt your Crest, just a while ago.” He glanced at the Feathers of Dromi. “So, you need to protect your Crest, and I am the only bearer of the Crest of Aubin these days, as far as we know. Might be useful to keep it afloat too. That’s two Crests. It means you and I,” he touched her nose with his own. “Have a whole lot of babies to make.”

“Yuri! Ah! Why must you -” Her exasperation was swiftly interrupted by a kiss, so tender it nearly broke her, and then she kissed back, languidly and happily, coming to sit by his side on the bed, grazing her hands through his hair, his cheeks, his chest. She didn’t want to let go. She didn’t have to.

At the infirmary door, a Sylvain with a rare sense of self-preservation stopped and turned back; he’d give them ten more minutes. 


End file.
